


The Jagged Edges

by Eligh



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Developing Relationship, F/M, Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is not the only one with a past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jagged Edges

**Author's Note:**

> Shiny new fandom! And there will be more--both in and out of this storyline. Let me know what you think.

Bond dallied a good fifty yards behind Q, half turned in profile so he could keep an eye on his quartermaster but still keep the bulk of his silhouette inconspicuous amongst the scurrying crowds. He almost lost Q more than once on the underground—he was so painfully skinny that he could slip through spaces Bond could not; fortunately, Bond had no compunction about shoving his way through when too many people closed in.

It had taken Bond a shocking (and frankly, insulting) amount of time to realize that Q disappeared from both MI6 and his flat for a few hours once a week. It wasn’t exactly clockwork, but tended to happen closer to the weekend, and each missing block of time was at least four hours long. Bond blamed their erratic working hours and field missions on the fact that he didn’t notice sooner, though the explanation sounded somewhat hollow in his head.

He’d watched Q for a month before acting—he didn’t want to appear the jealous lover (because he honestly wasn’t sure what he could label the relationship he had with Q, but he did know he felt a sharp sort of jealousy at the thought of someone else touching what was his—nevermind the hypocrisy). And if he jumped to conclusions, he would appear exactly that.

So the month of watching had turned into this day of following, and—and _damn_ the man, he’d disappeared again. Bond picked up his pace slightly, rounding the corner he’d last seen Q hovering near and of course then ran directly into his decidedly unamused—ah. Partner.

“Q,” Bond muttered, and straightened his jacket. Q regarded him, arms crossed, face blank, and then after a moment, he sighed.

“You call yourself a spy,” Q finally said, and when Bond met his eyes, he had a small quirk of a smile hovering around his mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to be overly stealthy,” Bond defended. “You’re not a mark.”

“Yes, well,” Q hummed, apparently thinking, then shrugged. “I suppose you’ll have found out eventually. Come on, then.” And he turned on his heel and walked swiftly away, heading off the main roads into a more residential area. Bond followed, interested.

“Are you visiting someone?” he asked after they’d walked for perhaps ten minutes in silence. Q glanced at him but said nothing, and Bond frowned. “If it’s another man—”

Q stopped at a flight of steps that led up to a narrow brownstone. “Not another man, no,” he said, now looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Though it is something a bit like that.”

“A bit—” Bond started to ask, but Q was already stepping briskly up the stairs and rapping sharply on the door. Bond joined him, hovering uncertainly behind him, and then blinked in surprise when a woman in scrubs opened the door. She smiled at Q, evidently pleased to see him.

“Hello, Mister Boothroyd,” she said, then peered around him. “You’ve brought a friend?”

Q smiled (Bond watched, surprised but not showing it—Boothroyd?) and nodded. “Good afternoon, Janice. This is a friend of mine, Commander Bond.” He glanced into the recesses of the house. “How is she feeling today?”

“Good, quite well,” Janice responded, taking a step back and ushering them in. “You’d almost think she knew you were coming. Got out of bed and everything.” Bond watched as a slight pained look flitted across Q’s face, but he blinked and it was gone. The nurse hadn’t appeared to notice, blathering on about the weather and could she take their coats and you know the way, Mr. Boothroyd.

Q murmured a quiet thanks and handed her his jacket (Bond did not relinquish his) and started up a set of interior stairs. He stopped halfway up, perhaps realizing that Bond was not following, and turned. “Coming?”

“Who lives here?” Bond asked, but Q just rolled his eyes and started climbing again. After a moment of indecision, Bond followed.

The stairs ended at the front of a narrow hallway, and Bond found Q standing, staring at a closed door. Q glanced up at him, a forced smile on his face, before he rapped lightly on the door, waited a moment, then opened it and disappeared inside. Bond followed blankly—this was clearly some sort of assisted care facility, but he hadn’t the slightest clue who he’d find inside this room.

After all, he’d read Q’s file months ago, before they’d ever started this whole—whatever it was—and Q was just as much an orphan as he was, unconnected, a leaf on the wind.

Bond stepped through the door, taking in a modest, clean room—a single bed, wooden dresser, mirror, closet. There was an armchair sat facing a large, airy window, and it was in front of this chair that Q was kneeling, a wide smile on his face (wide enough that his glasses were pushed up on his crinkled nose).

There was a woman in the chair, probably around the same age as Q, perhaps slightly younger. She had raven black hair, olive skin, and softly slanted eyes; was dressed in a similar manner to Q, in a rumpled cardigan and jeans. Disconcertingly, her face was vacant, staring off into space, the sort of vacancy Bond had seen before, and he abruptly felt sick. Q was holding her hand.

“Bond,” he said softly. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Sarah.”

~

Bond stood outside the brownstone, leaning against the step railings and smoking a cigarette, ignoring the annoyed looks from the nurses on duty inside the house. He’d hovered upstairs with Q for perhaps twenty minutes, listening as Q murmured softly to the woman in the armchair, telling stories that Bond recognized as carefully censored office tales. He’d introduced Bond, saying he was a friend, and Bond had voiced a quiet hello in return. The woman had looked at him for half a second, her empty brown eyes flicking to meet his, and he’d fled shortly after.

Bond was… confused. Q’s file had said he was unmarried, had always been unmarried, and it wasn’t like MI6 to make such a blatant error. And Bond had seen the look on Q’s face while he talked to the woman—his _wife_ , Bond thought ruefully—there was no doubt that he loved her very much.

Perhaps it wasn’t such an impossibility that Q’s file had been wrong. He was a technological genius, after all. And what better way to protect someone so obviously helpless than to make sure she didn’t exist?

It was two hours before Q appeared at the head of the steps—Bond chain smoked the entire time—saying quiet goodbyes to a different nurse and shrugging on his jacket. He stepped nimbly down the steps and stopped next to Bond, fixing him was a severe, penetrating gaze. With a flick of his fingers, he reached out and stole Bond’s cigarette and took a long drag.

“I suppose you have questions,” he said, words muffled through the smoke. Bond didn’t say anything, but Q nodded anyway. “Of course you do.” He looked up and down the street, idly flicking ash from the pilfered cigarette, and said, “There’s a shop down the road. I’m freezing, let’s get a cuppa.”

They walked down the road in silence; Q took one last drag of the cigarette and handed it back to Bond. As they walked, Q started speaking, his voice so soft Bond could barely hear him over the general bustle of the surrounding city.

“We’d known each other as kids, grew up together, fell in love. Married young—I was nineteen and she was eighteen.” He smiled sadly and ran a hand through his messy curls. “Her parents were furious, her running off with an idiot computer programmer.” He lapsed into silence, staring down at his feet, wrapped in that ridiculous parka against the chill winter air, and Bond wanted nothing more than to pull him close and kiss his hair. He shoved his hands further into his jacket pockets, instead.

They reached the shop and Q went in to order tea—Bond declined a drink—and emerged five minutes later, steaming paper cup in hand. Q sat down on one of the iron chairs scattered around the front of the shop—the weather had kept everyone else inside, so they had the veranda to themselves. Bond sank down reluctantly opposite him, and finally broke his silence.

“What happened?”

Q took a sip of his tea. “She was brilliant, an engineer. She worked more in the manufacturing arena of certain products, and I was obviously in the more abstract. We were a good team—” and here he hesitated slightly, looking at Bond over the thick edge of his glasses. “I was not strictly on the side of law and order before I came to MI6.”

“I shouldn’t imagine,” Bond agreed, and Q took another sip.

“Anyway. I coded, she manufactured. We provided prototypes and programs to people who could afford them, and supplemented our income by old-fashioned thievery.” He made a face. “Well, I say old fashioned. We traded in secrets.”

“Not much has changed,” Bond murmured, and the corners of Q’s mouth twitched up for a moment before he sobered.

“We crossed the wrong people. About...” he paused to think. “God, was it eight years ago?” Bond looked surprised, and Q smiled again, bitterly. “Come on, Bond. I’m thirty-two. I know I look young, but you’re not _quite_ old enough to be my father.” He nudged Bond’s foot with his own under the table, then swallowed, back on track.

“They tortured her while I watched,” he said softly. “And they made me watch. They gave her drugs and...” he trailed off. Bond narrowed his mouth to a thin line. He knew what happened to women who were tortured. And Q had been forced to watch it happen to his wife... Q cleared his throat. “They broke her.”

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, but Q shook his head.

“Yes, well. They eventually released us—probably thinking some such idiotic notion like it would make me suffer more.” Another sip of his tea, a longer pause. “I made her safe, then approached MI6 with information. M hired me after throwing me in prison for six months.” He brought his cup to his mouth and breathed in the steam, settling himself.

“The rest is all semantics. Sarah’s place in that home is secured under a false name, paid in cash. The last M knew of her existence—I have no idea if our current lord and master does.” He looked up at Bond. “I would prefer all knowledge of her remain between us.”

Bond nodded, and they sat in silence for long minutes, Q occasionally taking sips of his drink, Bond watching pedestrians walk by.

“Did you catch the people who...?” Bond asked eventually. Q nodded. (Bond had questioned, before, if this young Q had ever had blood on his hands. That sharp nod spoke volumes, and he questioned no longer.)

There was another drawn out silence, and this time, Q was the one to break it.

“I did not tell you earlier for several reasons, first of which was I didn’t know where... this...” he gestured between the two of them, “...was going.” He looked contemplative, and Bond watched, a mask of impassivity. Finally: “I trust you to keep my secret, Bond, mostly because you of all people know what it is like to lose the person you’ve loved more than anything in the world. To have them taken.”

Bond tensed. “Q—”

“I know you don’t talk about her,” Q said, fixing Bond to the spot with his entirely too intelligent gaze, the sort of gaze that made Bond feel as if he was being judged. Often when Q looked at him like this, he thought he was found wanting, but today—today was different.

“I don’t,” Bond confirmed, and Q nodded.

“You understand this sort of pain,” Q said, his voice low. “Very few people do.” He looked up, taking a breath and inspecting the sky. “I would prefer if you did not follow me here again,” Q said, conversationally, but the order was implicit.

“I won’t,” Bond agreed, and Q nodded.

~

That night when they entwined their bodies—an act done together that they had both become painfully attached to—Bond thought in his quiet way about how perfectly they fit. Jagged edges rubbed sharp corners, their broken lives combined to make something a bit more liveable.

He didn’t love Q, and Q didn’t love him—not like society defined it, at least. But they were good together, two mismatched men, forever cursed to remember those who had come before.

And as Q shook in his arms, coming down, pressing hot and wet kisses into his throat and neck and chest, Bond was endlessly happy they’d found one another. 


End file.
